


Eviction Notice

by Shiggityshwa



Series: La Troisième Fois [6]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, F/M, Pregnancy, Three different storylines, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15786879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: Vala deals with labor in three different storylines. Only chapter 3 deals with Atlantis. Each chapter is AU. Part 6 of 9.





	1. That's Goose

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all. I've had a few comments on this series. First I'm still writing it. Back burner writing it (Bring It All Back and Floating in Space (unpublished as of yet) are my front burners). I got stuck on a certain part and like any bad writer I'm letting it simmer before I go at it again. However, Eviction Notice is complete and the next story in the series as well, after that it gets a little muddled. 
> 
> Secondly, a lot of comments on the Daniel perspective of things.  
> I'm not going to say much to ruin anything, but remember this is a story told solely from Vala's POV, therefore the inner workings of Daniel Jackson will not be showcased. If you're into him go read Bring It All Back. There's two of him over there.  
> Also you might want to start paying attention to the Chapter 2s in this series :) 
> 
> That being said thank you for your comments. I hope you continue to enjoy the series.

It’s not the best timing. That’s all it is.

They go away. Not Cameron and her, not by a long shot, but SG-1 go away on a last minute drastic quest in order to recover some ancient artifact that some baddie has pilfered from some innocent little planet. It’s very heroic and all but it leaves her alone on the base by herself for most of the day. She’s finally recovered from her various flus and colds and coughs and any other diseases that eating a supposedly organic otherworldly apple has incubated within her.

“We won’t be gone for more than a week.” Cameron sits on the hardwood floor before the couch and twists a long cheesy goober from a piece of pizza into his mouth. She sits in the middle of the black comfy couch, her legs crossed and the weight of the baby balancing between her knees. Extra extra cheese and she might choke on the sheer amount of melty goodness. He’s got some movie playing about flying airplanes because he doesn’t get enough of that at the mountain.

It’s exceedingly hot out being well into summer at this point. Cameron’s house doesn’t have air conditioning since he’s never actually home during the day and merely leaves the windows open at night. For her he’s placed a box fan angled towards her, making catching the cheese in her mouth a more difficult task.

“My due date is in three.” The baby is heavy and pulls her forward if she leans too much. She’s also accidentally whacked too many things off it: car doors, cupboards, pulling out chairs. The child is now likely to be born with a permanent dent on their fuzzy little head.

“I’m not going to miss it,” promises, re-promises taking a swig of his beer, two fingers around the perspiring neck, and plops down on the couch next to her.

“I’m liable to go into labor early.” The plate balances on top of her stomach, pushing back against her chest.

“I’m not going to miss it.”

“It’s not my first baby.”

He removes the plate which is threatening to tumble, and places it on top of his on the table. “Princess, I’ll be here.”

She turns away from his face, his eyes, the brightness of the stars behind them, and floats her direction to the walls, to a vintage plane poster and pictures of him with family members, his lovely mother and father, his grandfather aboard a ship.

“Talk to me.” He leans sideways into the couch, his face turned towards hers, and his fingers twisting at the end of one of her pigtails.

Copies his position the best she can, stretching and groaning, unsettling from her crooked legs. He moves his spare hand to her stomach, sneaking it up underneath the black t-shirt that her body strains against. Fingers strum against her skin and the baby jostles within her, not quite kicking her in the ribs, not putting pressure on her bladder or stomach or any other organ, just surprised by the sudden touch.

“I don’t know if I can do this alone again, Cameron.” It’s a truth normally she would keep buried inside, but there’s hardly any room for anything else now. At her last check in with Lam, the doctor wagered the baby is at birthing weight if not over.

“And you won’t have to,” his voice is a gravelly but confident whisper and she shuffles closer to him so he can elaborate for her, let her know in all the words he can how he will not abandon them. “Even if I have to leave Jackson to fend for himself on some uncharted planet, I will be back before this baby is out.”

“We don’t have a name.”

“We don’t need a name.” The pads of his fingers lick at her skin and she suppresses a shiver up her spine. “Not yet at least. Something for us to hash out when I get back.”

“Among other things.”

“Speaking of which, have you thought more about what I said?”

He wants her to move in with him, and she can’t understand why even though she knows why. Has an adorable yellow nursery decorated with little ducks and frogs waiting for their baby, has an entire life set up for her and him and them and their family and she doesn’t know if she can do it because she’s done it twice before and both times it was more forced than wanted and she doesn’t know how much she wants it.

But he’s intuitive to her emotions, her fears. Tomin wasn’t when she slept in a square for three days. Husband number three wasn’t when he threw the lantern at her, when he left her stuck in an upper bedroom while their house burned. “There’s no pressure,” reminds as he flips up her shirt, bundling it under her breasts and pressing a cheek to her stomach. “I just think—I know—we have something good.”

Doesn’t answer but plays with the short hair at the base of his neck. She focuses on the television because he does. “That’s Goose,” explains to her stomach and the blue light from screen flickers behind her eyes instead of stars. “We don’t like him.”

They stay content for a few moments, his breathe hot and moist on her skin as he tells their child how to fly jets, and how much training he had to do, and how he’ll never fly over Antarctica again because he froze his ass off last time and she starts to drift to sleep.

“Hey.” Darts away from her stomach and stops the film in the middle of a rather loud action scene. “It’s time for Cupcake Battles.”

“Oh Darling.” she stretches her arms out, her back pressing into the couch. “I think I’m all cupcaked out for this pregnancy.”

They held a surprise baby shower for her earlier in the week, spoiled her with gifts of teeny socks and shoes, of little jumpers and pants and dresses, of diaper mountains and dummys and the softest blankets she’s ever felt. Most of the little snacks had cute little bees and ducks and other woodland animals on them, but they got her cupcakes, the same little spider ones from the show and she ate so many she’s amazed she didn’t throw up. It sunk in then, that this baby, number three, was going to be present in less than a month and she would be solely charged with caring for it and she didn’t know if she could.

“Are you feeling okay?” Hand blankets her forehead and it must be like a second home by now. She doesn’t try to fight him off or argue that she’s in perfect health for once in the last nine months.

“I’m just ruminating, that’s all.” Expects him to reiterate how much he’ll be there for her when he’s leaving tomorrow for a week. How this baby respects him enough to not be born until his timely return, but he doesn’t.

His hand falls to her cheek and he drags her chin forward a bit, placing a cheap kiss on her lips, then another, then deepening it until they recreate their first night together. Start and finish on the couch. Contemplate her leaving because she has an early morning appointment with Dr. Lam, and then starting and finishing in the bedroom. She falls asleep on his outstretched arm and his face buried into the back of her hair. An arm snakes underneath her breasts and his hand falls flat on her stomach to feel their baby kick angrily at being woken up.

*

“Ah, Ms. Mal Doran,” General Landry greets her at the door to Daniel’s lab where she’s not doing inventory anymore, but a stationary restock sheet to ensure he has enough pencils so that when he becomes irate and breaks a few, he’ll still be able to write too lightly and near illegibly on his reports. “How are you feeling today?”

Normally she would lie through her teeth, slap a thick grin on and prance around the room explaining in as many words as she could how counting Daniel’s pencils is the most rewarding thing she’s ever done. But she is done. Not fed up or irritated at the constant questions and belly prods from near strangers on the base, but exhausted. At least when she was sick she slept the majority of the time.

“I’m tired, Sir.” Doesn’t exaggerate how tired she is, or explain that since Cameron and the rest of the team left three nights ago she hasn’t had a decent sleep because all her brain plays is nightmares and horrid situations. Ones where she’s once again a single mother, to a non-deity, who she cannot raise properly. Instead she leans against Daniel’s desk, the thick wooden edge pressing into her legs. “I’m tired.”

The General’s eyes soften a bit and he lets a weak smile tick to his face. Like most of the other SG-1 men, he’s been quite awkward around her, afraid she might lash out in a mood, or maybe because she’s so big she might actually explode before him. He nods at her. “Take the rest of the afternoon off.”

She pauses, unsure if he’s speaking to her or to an invisible entity in the room. “Are you sure, Sir?”

“Positive, go get a good meal and have a good nap.” He waves her off and out of the lab and she begins her long waddle down the hall. If the occasion called for it, she would be able to run, but not for long. Her feet swell to the size of her shoes and despite all the nice pairs the team have purchased for her, she prefers a ratty old pair that Teal’c lent her.

Her room is gray and cold and empty. A few pictures on her walls, of her and Sam, her and Daniel, her and Teal’c, but none of her and Cameron. How did they become this close, this capable together to be prepared to raise a child for the next however many years? Knows he’s enamored with her because she’s the lucky woman who won carrying his firstborn, and the stars they glisten when she speaks to him, or touches him, or bumps him with their baby. He doesn’t want her, he just wants the idea of a complete and loving family.

The lights in her room have the same irritating blue tinge and she moves to flick the switch off, but at that moment her room shudders, pictures crash from the walls and she holds herself into place under the bathroom doorframe, slipping loose, swinging around, and crashing belly first into the sturdy frame. The lights extinguish leaving her in mountain darkness before the auxiliary generator kicks on staining everything a fear mongering red.

An alarm whoops as more tremors work their way through the complex. Trinkets sprinkle off her bathroom shelf and crash to the floor as she covers her head with one hand and her stomach with the other. A second alarm blares and she scrambles to her feet, knowing this isn’t an earthquake and with the team away, they’re going to need help. So, she flings open her door, and re-waddles down the hallway, ignoring the sharp pain in her stomach.


	2. No. No. I--

It’s her moment of greatest despair. That’s all it is.

She squats on the stairs long after the prior has left their home. His home. She’ll never have a home and no matter how many times she tries to convince herself when she becomes comfortable in a place, comfortable with a man, that she no longer has to run and she belongs and is loved, she never is. It’s part of a greater charade in some ascended being’s ploy. Daniel once said he was ascended and if that bastard got up there again and is messing with her life she’ll bring him back down.

Tomin sits at his kitchen table, head in his hands and his arms shaking, from anger, from the betrayal he believes she’s brought upon him, when really her only betrayal is cuckooing him into caring for a child she didn’t conceive through the fun bits. The stupid blackhole, that stupid stargate team. Why wouldn’t they listen to her? Why did she help them? Partly wanted to be right she supposes, and maybe partly to show her usefulness, that she wasn’t all seductress and thief. Well, that was a large part of her outward personality, but she’s smart, perhaps equally as smart as a polyglot archeologist and an astrophysicist because in their panic they didn’t think to plug the dam with their thumb so she had to use hers and she’s being punished for it.

No matter what she does, she’s always being punished.

The slam of Tomin’s fist against the table rouses her from her daydream of self pity and recriminations for everyone but herself. Somehow, she’s never the hero she’s meant to be. A bowl from the table shudders off the side and smashes on the floor as her husband screams out in anguish, his cloak swaying as he marches out the door.

And what is she supposed to do? Chase after him and try to explain the supergate, the stargate program, the milky way galaxy, how she does not want this child but can’t seem to get rid of it. She tried early in their marriage, sought out a chemist and the mixture just like last time, it just didn’t take. It wouldn’t take.

She pulls the fabric of her dress forward stepping down the stairs gently so her extra weight doesn’t creak the stressed wood. Kneels just before the shards of bowl, and plucks them up into the basin she’s made from dress material to make sure no slivers get stuck in feet. Promises herself that she will not cry, will not allow her disappointment at her own life to have a physical effect on her. But when she thinks of leaving, of running off into the woods or for the next town, knowing she won’t make it far in her condition, her eyes become wet because she’s captured, she’s stuck, and she blames the tears on her hormones, on a baby she doesn’t want.

When he returns home, it’s late and he smells strongly of ale and vomit. She tried to wait up for him, but the baby has taken to kicking her in the bladder if she’s not lying down by a certain hour. He grumbles and clomps into his washroom slamming the door and tumbling around things. A cup falls that she cleans up in the morning, again using the slack material of her dress as a collection plate.

He exits the bathroom, slamming the door off the wall, and with a grunt he climbs into bed beside her. Faces his back to her and rides the very edge of the bed. She does the same in the opposite direction. He might as well be her third husband, and she tiptoes around him for the next few days in fear that his hands will turn spiteful on her, will leave her to fend for herself in a housefire after she tells him to stop drinking because he’s going to be a parent as well. She knows he’s not the same man, but the soft loving words he cooed to her as he took care of her have dried in his mouth and he grumbles if he talks at all.

She knows Tomin is not her third husband, because she killed her third husband.

Still she reaches for him as he goes to leave that day, the day she expects him not to come back whether it’s because he’s been shipped off to war or because he’s been exploded by a sabotage. Plops down on the landing between house levels and tries to hold him back when he doesn’t want to even hold her hand.

“Stay with me,” pleads as his warm hand slides inside of her hers, but he’s angled away from her, already set to march out the door and she knows his faith in the Ori greatly outmatches his faith in her, after all she was just the girl who fell from the sky.

Just supposedly banished from another village and only the Ori know why.

“Blessed are those who walk in union.” He speaks to her tersely and she almost wants to go with him, to die in the bane of flames once again just so that this, whatever her life is meant to be, whatever she’s meant to do with this child, will stop.

Just stop.

The door slams behind him clanking the sign she made welcoming people into his home. She opens the door and removes the sign, tossing it into the trash, and prepares to meet up with Seevus.

*

Then they’re all gathered around her, listening to her speak her tale, her trials. They lose interest quite easy, as most Tau’ri tend to, but she gets out the most important parts of what happened, of her being pregnant against her will, quiet literally, although she leaves that out because it’s one less thing she needs to be judged on. Instead speaks of the massive Ori ships, of the armies taking flight to decimate any unbelievers, how if practice makes perfect than their slaughter within the Milky Way Galaxy will be swift and unstoppable.

“You said Seevus had access to the specs on the ships, what kind of weaponry are they using?” Mitchell asks leaning forward from the table.

Sam interrupts him, “and the shields and anything on the power source that they’re using.”

Being hooked up to the stones, or the long-range communication device, as Daniel so eloquently named it, while being in Daniel’s body is different than being in Salis. The replica is a mockery of the real thing, she’s not entirely in Daniel’s body or her own. She can be influenced by Seevus in order to ask specific questions, it’s more of a seventy-five twenty-five thing.

Her last words as Daniel are, “No. No. I—” and are spoken to Seevus as he aims a weapon at Tomin.

No. No. I love him.

No. No. I need him.

No. No. I don’t want to be present when he dies.

Tomin slaughters her friends, right in front of her, slaughters the people she’s been plotting with to free Ver Isca, and he turns the staff on her, turns the staff on their child. Well, it’s her child now and she didn’t get it through almost eight months of danger to let it die now.

He lets her speak before she assumes he’s going to kill her, he’s that upset with her, because the village thinks she played him for a fool when actually the Ori did. Keeps aim of the staff on her and with one shot the pure energy will eat away at her, burn a hole through her and she is so tired of being burned.

“We have to walk this path together,” mangles his words from early, one of his favorite passages from The Book of Ori promoting teamwork and love and everything they use as a genocide for unbelievers. This is how she’s going to die, by the hands of her fourth husband because she wasn’t smart enough to see him coming like the third.

But to her surprise he relinquishes the staff, setting it down and moving to embrace her. He halts though, instead bowing in forgiveness to a fetus neither of them want but have a duty to birth at this point. Her hands run through his hair and she shudders at how close death was.

*

They go to war and they treat her like a queen, a captive queen, where maidens and guards follow her every step around the ship because they still don’t entirely trust her. When Tomin requested she be brought along the one-eyed Prior laughed and slapped him on the shoulder, sent a wicked grin her way and she knew it was going to be bad.

As bad as watching her friends’ ships explode through blue striking beams, watching limbs and torsos fly into space and wondering if that’s Daniel, is that Cameron, is that Samantha, is that Teal’c?

And when she thinks it can’t get any worse, that the slaughter cannot possibly reach a new height, a stabbing pain juts across her stomach and water trickles down her legs.


	3. The Ori Oar

It’s the perfect storm. That’s all it is.

“You’re telling me that you don’t have a single name picked out.”

His fingers play over her feet, press into the deep arches where muscle knots harder than bone, trickles them down the side and swirls them around her heels where she carries most of her weight, as he’s told her many times before.

“Superstitions, darling.” Cups her hand under her mouth as she bites into a rather crisp cherry tomato that starts to dribble out of control.

He shakes his head at her, while she tries to save her lunch. “I don’t know.” Rough pads stretch out the bottom of her feet molding the skin and the muscles forward than back, trying to reconstruct her pre-pregnancy balance is a feat of its own. “Gotta be some kind of superstition if you don’t have a name waiting.”

She hasn’t told him about Adria, or about husband one through four for that matter. Daniel seemed like enough drama for the moment since he’s become a rather permanent fixture on Atlantis. The storming season adeptly came early, not unlike a certain archeologist, effectively grounding the _Hammond_ and its crew including Samantha, who is a bit disappointed at delaying her trip back to Earth and a certain General who slid a ring on her finger the last time she was there, is more than enthused about possibly being present for the birth. The downside to the whole equation is a whingy little doctor who’s not settling down resulting in throw-ins with each scientist on staff, including herself.

“Conversation for another day, right?” Fingers ring around her ankles and she involuntarily splays out her toes stretching her legs to her knee. Shovels another forkful of spinach into her mouth and only nods out an answer, her cheeks puffy with food and her body relaxing after almost two endless months of drama.  He chuckles spreading the balls of her feet and then compacting them, does the same with the toes. “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to answer at least one of my questions.”

“Mmm,” she takes a swig from a water bottle and places it back behind her on the side table. “Not likely.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I’ll just use my body and distract you with seduction.” Wiggles her hips and they both know it’s as a joke because her stomach rivals a beach ball and sits on her as an almost separate mass.

“Now that is not fair.” His hand trails over her heel to cup her shin squeezing just gently enough to identify where the strained muscles are. “You’re going to win every fight.”

“As I should.” She leans forward from the arm of the couch, her stomach acting as a hurdle between them, but she collects some leafage from her bowl and reaches forward for him to eat. He does but his nose twitches and flares at the onslaught of vegetables. “You need to start eating better because I’m going to want you around for a while, especially after last night.”

He beams, she knew he would, and he deserves to. Doesn’t think she’s been that exhausted after a roll in the sheets since she was Qetesh and taking dozens of lovers at once. He knows about that, large face falling flaccid as she told him what happened, how she saw it all but couldn’t stop it, how the villagers beat her until the To’kra stepped in, and he kept her eyes the entire time, during the entire ordeal from when she was plucked from her betrothed to when they placed her down on a commerce planet with a pat on her back and a wish of good luck as her bones still mended.

At the end of her tale, he slipped his large hand into hers. “You have a kind heart, so people take advantage of you, but you’re strong. Stronger than me, with the exclusion of my mother, probably the strongest person I’ve ever met. I’ll tell you that I’m here for you, but you know that and you don’t need me, you just need this—” and he touched her temple softly, his fingers tickling over her skin, cupping her cheek, tracing her lips.

“You know,” he still chews on the same mouthful of salad, same sickly expression still pulling at his face every time his teeth meet. “Ronon is a good name for a boy or a girl.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have your own child named after you?” Stabbing the fork again around the basin of the wooden bowl.

She told him that she didn’t expect anything from him, understood the situation was for lack of a better term, sticky, and that he didn’t have any responsibilities towards her or the baby as far as she was concerned. His mouth crashed onto hers cutting her sentence short, drowning her words with his tongue as he flipped her underneath him. “You need to start raising your standards.”

His hand smothers her stomach, even in its bulbous state. The baby kicks and punches, shivers and jostles inside of her, a bigger little marble in a smaller pinball machine. She has feet in her ribs, but she laughs because she’s happy, and going to have a baby and she’s safe, and may be a bit infatuated with a good man.

“Ahem.” Daniel clears his throat from the doorway of her office. They hadn’t heard him enter, nor know how long he’s been present for. He stands in his SGC gear as is protocol, with his hands in his pockets watching her try to spoon feed a man who is a foot taller than her as he plays with their baby.

Her baby.

“Danny Boy,” Ronon stands in greeting, lifting her legs off him as if they were bed covers. He leans over and snatches the last spoonful of salad with his mouth, knowing she’ll be going for second lunch in about ninety minutes. “How’s it going.”

“Oh, not to bad.” His voice is tense and she understands why it would be, but he did lie to Samantha about needing a particular book from the expansive Atlantis library which got him shipwrecked. “Dr. McKay and I have actually made headway translating what he has called the spear of destiny—”

“The Ori oar?” A bit of water dribbles down her chin as she swigs from the last bit of her drink. She wipes it away with her black shirt sleeve and sits adjusting the material over her stomach. At least she can wear a large in men’s fatigue pants, but finding shirts is starting to drive Colonel Shepperd crazy.

“Or that, yes.” Daniel slides her a stern look, and Ronon crosses his arms, leaning back against her empty examination table. He takes notice, “I—ugh—We wanted to get your input on the Ori part to ensure the glyphs had been properly translated.”

“Daniel.” She places her hand on the arm of the couch, using it as leverage to stand but doesn’t make it on the first try. “You—” tries again but falls back onto the soft cushion. He steps forward to help her, but Ronon stays stationary, “You—” and rolling forward a bit, she lands on her feet a little less gracefully than a gymnast. “Have read the Book of Ori more times than I have.”

Daniel’s voice holds a slight tone of irritation, “Yes, but I didn’t live in the Ori Galaxy for almost a year.”

Ronon’s eyebrows twitch, trying not to react to the information. Although he handled last night’s revelations well, his brain is still probably trying to file it correctly.

“Well, you’re definitely the more proficient reader.” Imbued with a sudden sense of unease, not due to the conversation and the information exposed within it, but the room, the ambience is prickled with electricity, a static ringing around the walls and she tries not to let it distract her from Daniel being Daniel.

“Well I didn’t give birth to the Orici.”

The pithy rebuttal never escapes her lips, nor does she get a moment to gauge Ronon’s reaction and hopefully satiate him by promising to explain later. Doesn’t see him point a finger at her and knowingly whisper the word ‘superstition’ because he doesn’t need it explained because he already understands. Doesn’t tell Daniel that with his attitude he’s a parent to no one and nothing, least of all the baby attached to her or the five flowered purple plant in the corner.

“Vala,” chides her for not answering him directly because instead she floats around the periphery of her office, sensing something off.

When she doesn’t answer, just continues to sway, her eyes directed up at the ceiling, hearing screams. Are those screams? The sounds of weapons and crying, painful crying, Ronon sticks to her side, nudges the side of her head with his. “Hey.”

“Can you hear that?”

“Are you okay?”

“What?” his voice pulls her back and she’s staring into his eyes, the color of them settles her heartbeat.

He pulls her hands off her stomach, something she didn’t know she’d been doing. “What’s wrong.”

“Vala.” Daniel’s on her other side, angling his head the same direction as hers to hear what she does. “What did you hear?”

“There’s—it’s hard to explain. Like electrical? An electrical current or static, hissing like—”

“Like staffs.” Daniel exclaims before her office door bursts in, she ducks her head into Ronon’s chest and after slivers of wood skitter through the air. He herds her behind him.

“Go.”

“Go where?’ Eyes wide, eyebrows up, hands not big enough to protect her full stomach.

“Anywhere.” Daniel answers for him, picks up a shard of wood ready to possibly bludgeon someone, but he doesn’t move an inch before the Ori solider indisposes him.

They shoot Ronon in quick succession, two, three, then four times, until he topples to his knees and his torso slaps against the ground with a resonating thud. The arm gun got them, and usually two is enough to kill, but looking down at his body, he still breathes shallowly.

There are seven soldiers in the room, each with shiny silver armor and pinchy little spears and staffs. They back her up against her desk, her thighs pressing into the wooden edge and she smiles nervously at them.

“Mother of the Orici.” They bow before her and her eyes flicker left than right trying to route an escape but she’s burdened and no where near as lithe as before. “We’ve come to take you home.”

“I—I am home,” she flashes a grin, trying to sift through the pairs of eyes, searching for Tomin’s dull gray but doesn’t find him.

“The Ori armies have waited patiently for you to deliver us a new leader.”

“No. No. No—” tries to scurry behind her desk, out the window, down the tower, but they cut her off at each pass forming a prudent semicircle so she cannot move more than a foot in each direction. She lost one child to them, not another “—No. No. No. No.”

She’ll die before another—

It becomes clear she’s not as keen to deliver the second Orici as they are to receive it, the leader, the orator, hits her once with a very light stun and she crumbles to the ground, conscious enough to feel a familiar pain strike through her stomach as they carry her away.


End file.
